Single Stitches
by Pyrex Shards
Summary: My series of short HA drabbles, all presented in a single anthology for your amusement.
1. Concept

A/N: This is my first drabble. I'm trying to kill some writers block that keeps on stalling my attempts at writing chapter two of Bluebird. I'm inspired, I just couldn't write, so here's my attempt at an exorcism of sorts. No holy water required. ;)

Single Stitches – Drabble 1: Concept

a Hey Arnold drabble fic series by Pyrex Shards

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By the time she was five years old she had a pretty good concept of what it meant...

The word 'love'...

Or at least Helga thought so. It was a feeling that fluttered up from her legs and up to her heart, paralyzing everything in its wake and mushing up her muscles so she had to retreat behind a corner and swoon before her legs gave out. For her, love was a topic learned from a cheap supermarket romance novel that Helga stole from her mom when she knew that Miriam had finished reading it.

Helga sat on the swing in front of Hillwood Kindergarten Center number four, with her arms around the dirty metal chains and her hands cradling a haggard looking paperback book like it was her most prized possession, for it was at the time, with its corners worn smooth and the pages fanning out. Her feet anchored her to the ground but she pivoted on her tows in a rocking motion as she looked through the book. She recalled the first time she read it.

Her introduction to literature happened in Preschool! That introduction was in the form of a cheap two dollar world printed on substandard paper stock, and it quickly became something she wanted to wrap herself in like a warm blanket. It was her solitary place, her retreat from her mother, her father, her sister, her classmates, even Phoebe at times.

Helga had read through the novel time and time again. But that first time. The words didn't make sense. Sure, she kind of picked up names and places. She was sitting in her spacious walk-in closet, the naked light bulb overhead casted ugly shadows through the brown dust that had burned onto its glass. She held the book in her little hands while she slowly attempted to read the words out loud, one finger hovering over the page, allowing her to pace through the paragraphs.

"Pw... Pweju.. dice. Pwe, ju, dice"

It went on like this for hours each evening. It was only interrupted by her groaning stomach, prompting her to sit the book down and figure out what was on the menu for dinner.

Slowly, and methodically, she finished the book until she hit the end. A smile crept on to her face. She didn't close the book. Instead, Helga flipped to the first page and started to read it a second time. After more attempts she got better...

"Pwejudice" became "Prejudice"

She mastered the phonetics and the meaning came shortly after. She discovered that Sergio, a police officer down on his luck, loved Emily. Emily was in a loveless marriage with Edward, a stock broker. Helga had no idea what a stock broker was, but she knew police officers, and somehow stock broker just didn't sound handsome. That is what the book led her to believe.

Sergio was investigating a murder in the area and Emily was a suspect. This hurt the young police officer's aching heart. Helga read through the story time and time again and the world in the pages opened up to her. It pulled her in. Sometimes she was Emily, and Arnold was her Sergio. Other times, in fleeting moments of indulging the wilder part of her fertile imagination, she fantasized herself as Sergiana, a young female police officer, and Arnold was Emilio, a mild mannered stock broker, framed for murder and in a hopeless marriage with a woman who was very obviously cheating on him.

Helga re-read the book constantly, as if playing a video tape and then rewinding it to memorize each frame of video.

She continued this as she sat on the swing in front of the brick red kindergarten building, and she read her favorite part.

"_I love Emily, sir"Sergio finally admitted to his chief from around the Marlboro that danced on his lips as he spoke. "You say its a worthless concept, this thing called love. If my love for Emily is nothing but the product of this fleeting notion, then I love this concept, and I'll make Emily mine, I'll find the murderer, and it won't be Emily."_

Helga sighed lovingly.

Arnold...

He was her Emilio...

She loved the concept.

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Author's Corner:

No, I have never read a romance novel. That would be disturbing since I'm a man. But I've mocked plenty of romance novels mercilessly while bored at the book store with some friends, picking up the novels and reading the cheesy synopsis out loud. So I guess I learned how to write the synopsis of a romance novel. I plead sanity! :)

I'm putting this into a container that I'm calling "Single Stitches." This will turn into a series of drabbles, as a catch for when I'm running on empty in the inspiration department and need to come up with something cheap and quick to keep me "in the zone."

These things don't go through independent beta reads so I'll probably have some horrid errors here and there. If you find one then please let me know.

As always, please R&R. I love feedback!


	2. Yes

A/N: I have to say this now and get it off of my chest. I made no references to the novel _Pride and Prejudice_ in the last drabble. I only used the word 'Prejudice' because the thought of young Helga saying 'pwejudice' just seemed so undeniably cute absent the meaning of the word. It was a random word said innocently by a young kid reading a romance novel. Nothing more. However now I have this urge to read _Pride and Prejudice._ Darn.

Single Stitches – Drabble 2: Yes

a Hey Arnold drabble fic anthology by Pyrex Shards

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Physically strong and mentally sharp. Creative and sarcastic. A High School senior and honors society student with a sense of humor. A tough lipped poetess the likes of which the world had never seen before. A modern day Henry Chinaski turned attractive female and minus the booze. Arnold's bully, yet his friend. A complex girl in a complex world. For Arnold, that described Helga.

Their graduating class had followed Helga's dating career in amusement. In their fifth grade year she started seeing Brainy of all people. Then once the shock wore off she ended it with Brainy and gravitated towards some seventh grader named Michael. She was in the sixth grade at the time. It progressed through the years, and along with it the rumors of nasty fights that Helga always won, loss of virginity, strange triangles, and even a trapezoid. The dirtiest of the rumors said she was loose. Arnold couldn't put Helga and 'easy' in the same sentence. He ignored those rumors.

Helga was still the same Helga that Arnold had always known. That was the main reason he accepted his ideal view of her as opposed to what the rumors painted. He knew that they did hold truths from time to time, but he had no faith in the rumor mongers that spread them viciously. Helga was not easy, she wasn't a tramp, she wasn't any of those other derogatory words that were true about a select few women, yet unfairly leveled upon many more out of cruelty. Something had indeed changed about Helga, though. As the world aged before them, Helga had softened up on Arnold. She still referred to him as Football Head. Her jabs at him were all friendly.

Arnold managed to get the same honors biology class with her. He didn't plan it. He also didn't plan on the seating arrangement that their teacher had decided upon. So Helga ended up one desk in front of him.

Each day he'd get bored in the class and his eyes would wander. Somehow they would always end up in the same place, that very spot where Helga's figure narrowed slightly and then disappeared behind the back of the ugly blue plastic chair that she sat in. Sometimes he'd count the long light-blonde hairs that lay loose upon her shoulders. She had long ago ditched her ponytails and wore her hair out. Helga had become Arnold's means of getting himself through the biology class, for he hated biology.

That was only the first week... After studying Helga closely week after week, he started to notice things...

He'd notice when after her breakups, she would turn around in her chair and admit it to Arnold with the happiest most candy-eating grin he had ever seen. He'd note how on the day after, that same smile wouldn't be so pronounced. She'd turn around in her chair and make a comment about his choice of dress. Sometimes it was sarcastic and occasionally a compliment.

For days after, the smile would fade until they were only civil with each other and nothing more... There was something about her fading smile that tugged at his heart somewhere deep, where he could sense it was there but not really feel its weight upon him. That weight would always go away whenever Helga, after finding another guy, would offer Arnold a smile so fake he mused that if she were an actress, she'd even have a hard time getting roles in B movies. He would feel jealousy welling up, shake his head slightly to quell it, and then resume writing in his notes as Helga turned around in her chair and did the same.

The months went by, and on this day, Helga had just broken up with another guy, at lunch. This time it was Anthony... Somethingrather... Arnold didn't care really what the guy's last name was. Helga's love life wasn't really something that interested him. All the same, something in his mind, buried deep within his primal self, nagged at him that the creature before him was just that much more attractive when she wasn't taken. Even though every single day there was nothing different other than her clothing.

After Helga had turned around and made her statement. "So I broke up with Anthony." Beamed at Arnold, then turned around in her chair. Something inside Arnold's mind snapped, and a desire washed through him. Heck! Why not! You only live once! And oh god, her smile was so cute, he couldn't get it out of his head sometimes. He reasoned all this to himself as he scribbled words on a piece of blank paper:

_Will you go out with me?_

He folded it up into fourths, and tapped Helga on the shoulder. His stomach suddenly flipped as Helga made eye contact with him. She turned around with a puzzled look, and looked at his hand as he held out the note to her. She silently took it and turned around in her desk, then unfolded the paper.

He watched her shoulders for any sign of emotion from her. He noticed for the briefest of moments that she seemed to be stiff all of the sudden. Even her hair seemed frozen in place, as if she was completely shocked.

_That's it._ _Our friendship will be weird from here on out._

Arnold noticed Helga's right arm twitching, was she writing on the note or her notebook? He couldn't tell. Then both arms moved and he reasoned she was folding the paper. A quiet breath of relief that he'd find the answer, and Helga turned around. She was smiling at him. Was that a good sign? It was a warm smile. He took the note and Helga turned back around.

Arnold looked around and slowly, ever so quietly, unfolded the college ruled piece of notebook paper. There, below his own chicken scratch handwriting that had been ruined by several years of writing mathematical formulas in his AP math classes (who knew?), was her signature cursive handwriting. In purple pen. It read_: _

_Yes!_

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Author's Corner

This was a pretty simple drabble. Most of it I had already written and had it stashed away on my hard drive for another day. However I looked at it again and realized that I just didn't want to try fitting it in another story, and it would possibly work as a drabble.

Let me know what you think!

In other news, I'm halfway done with chapter two of Bluebird. I'm gunning for posting it Monday morning (04/20/09).


	3. Making Out

Single Stitches – 3: Making Out

a Hey Arnold drabble fic series by Pyrex Shards

A/N: This entry be a poem ladies and gents. :)

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Helga wore  
her old pink bow,  
like a choker,  
tied around her neck.  
On their way into his room  
she stopped as he closed the door,  
she didn't move.

Helga smiled and tilted her head,  
forward just a little.  
Arnold's hands were steady,  
he reached to her bow from behind her,  
tugged on it,  
the elegant knot unfolded,  
loosing the ribbon around her neck,  
it fell,  
hung around on her shoulders.

He pulled her to him,  
embraced her,  
buried his face into her neck,  
and kissed her there,  
breathing in her smooth,  
warm,  
living skin  
that she had washed  
with lavender soap.

Later she told Arnold,  
softly into his ear  
as they fooled around,  
as she held him in her arms,  
that everything she was,  
everything about her,  
belonged totally to him.

Arnold looked at her,  
shook his head,  
he opened his mouth to object,  
Helga met his lips with a frenetic kiss,  
breathing into his lungs,  
her warm breath,  
her spirit.

She held him tightly,  
by shackles of her imagination,  
she soothed him with her voice,  
whispered her regrets into his ear,  
another school-day ended,  
she shoved him out of the way  
so she could be the first,  
to the bus.

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It wasn't much of a poem. Every now and then I get the urge to write one. Tonight just happened to favor me. I even posted something to my fictionpress account which is available via the homepage link in my profile. That was shameless self promotion, I know.

Please review!


	4. Infant

Single Stitches – 4: Infant

a Hey Arnold drabble fic series by Pyrex Shards

A/N: This is something I cooked up for another fanfic. I decided that it went into a plot direction I didn't want to go with said fanfic, but it would work as a drabble. Chapter 6 of Pink Ribbon will be posted this coming Saturday. My muse went on vacation for a few weeks and now I'm having to catch up. :(

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There was no discernible beginning to the dream, just that Arnold discovered he was in someone's arms. It was odd that he fit completely into the arms of another, but it all made sense when he tried to speak and his words came out in an infant gurgle. He kicked his legs and breathed, squeezing his fists shut. He was wrapped in a warm blanket. He then realized that his mother was smiling down at him.

"And how did my little guy sleep?" Stella cooed at Arnold, tickling his chin. He felt immensely happy, and he smiled appropriately. He giggled and squealed in joy through a toothless mouth.

He was a baby, and he had woken up to the careful, nurturing attention of his mother. It was as if someone had shut out all the complexities in life that were racking his brain lately, and replaced them with the happiest moment he could imagine. Stella gently rocked him in her arms while talking to him. "Are you ready for a busy day?"

The smiling face of his father, Miles, appeared beside Stella. He had his arms around her, his bold face resting on her shoulder as he reached out a finger for their son to grab. Arnold reached up, grabbed the strong finger, and held on tight.

Then they were outside in the middle of a rain storm. His parents were soaking wet with their hair matted down, but no raindrops hit Arnold. It was like a little patch of sky opened up and the rain missed his infant self completely.

Miles released Stella from his embrace and pulled his finger away from Arnold's grasp. "If we don't leave now we'll miss the flight." He said softly.

Stella shut her eyes and nodded her head in sadness, then sat Arnold down in a crib. Lightning filled the sky, and he could hear the sound of a plane make a low pass. He knew his parents where in that old plane. He was helpless to do anything but lay there and watch as the skies opened up and the little single-engine plane flew into a dark void. Immediately all sound ceased.

Arnold was alone. He yelled "don't leave me!" But it all came out as a blood curdling cry as some unknown force tipped over the crib into a street, and a two-year-old Arnold spilled out, immediately soaked in the rain, and kneeling down with his palms to the ground.

Rain... Torrents of rain beat down on him in thick drops. He looked behind him, there was no crib, just endless sidewalk stretching into a black horizon, yet lone shadows cast on the cement, like people were walking even though they weren't there.

Then the rain stopped. He looked up to see an umbrella patterned red and white like a circus tent, and a woman looking down at him. She had a huge pink bow in her blonde hair. The woman's hair was swept into two long pigtails. She wore a pink t-shirt over a plain white dress. He looked up at the blue eyed, unibrowed woman, as she scooped him up in her arms and held him to her body, he sat comfortably in her arms. He draped his own arms around her neck and held on as a sense of serenity washed over him. She turned to walk away from the place where she picked him up, and over her shoulder, Arnold could see the shattered remains of the crib.

The sight of the shattered crib hurt to look at. The toddler Arnold tightened his embrace around the woman's neck and shut his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, he realized he was standing in the doorway of his fourth grade class.

Helga sat in the classroom. Her fourth grade self with that juvenile pink dress and white shirt. Her childish pigtails jutted out from the sides of her head, themselves tied up with an impossibly larger than life pink bow. She cradled a baby in her arms, rocking it back and fourth in a motherly embrace. Her brow was soft on her face and she was looking at the little child longingly.

Arnold took two steps forward and realized he was staring at his infant self in Helga's arms.

End.

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Please review. Tell me what you think. Be honest, and thank you for reading!


	5. Untitled Poem at The Gypsy

Untitled Poetry at The Gypsy Coffeehouse  
an HA Fan Poem by Pyrex Shards

Normal people pretending to be.

That's what they are.

They all stand up for their fifteen minutes,  
every Tuesday night,  
at The Gypsy on fifth and main,  
and they vomit tripe,  
their poetry is stillborn.

We're the victims,  
the angst is their knife,  
as they read from their tattered  
dirty little notebooks,  
and pluck at guitar strings,  
months out of tune.

She waits for her moment,  
sipping a latte or a tea,  
tuning out the noise.

Just another face in the crowd,  
of emos and goths,  
ravers and preps.

People who will approach you,  
and witness Jesus to you…

She ignores the circus,  
turns a page in her book,  
straightens her pigtails,  
and fingers the pink bow,  
in her golden hair.  
She doesn't know he's watching her,  
doesn't know he's there.

The last fifteen,  
and its her time,  
she closes the book,  
closes her eyes,  
stills herself,  
as he watches from a corner.

The emcee announces,  
her name is Helga.  
No last name,  
she prefers it that way,  
away from her anchors,  
her weights,  
the ballast in her reality.

She approaches the crowd center,  
but she doesn't sit,  
she prefers to stand,  
like a singer behind the mic,  
whose words are themselves music.

She recites from memory,  
while her blue eyes study us,  
as we turn to her,  
in rapt attention,  
for we are a willing canvas,  
upon which she paints.

It is a tapestry of words,  
warm with her breath,  
illuminated with her soul,  
judgmental and angry.

She tells us of longing,  
pain,  
suffering,  
agony,  
love,  
hate,  
nurture,  
neglect,  
impotence,  
selflessness,  
and avarice.

Words genuine like diamonds,  
each and every one.

She stands there,  
a naked poetess before us,  
painting with her lifeblood,  
portraits of her soul,  
for all to see.

She is the poetry she speaks,  
choreographing haunting words,  
that flutter through the air.

The words are free,  
to fly and soar,  
through the enraptured crowd,  
but she doesn't know,  
that one whom she seeks,  
those syllables have found him,  
and whispered in his ear.

He knows her secret,  
her desire,  
her fear.

He's always known,  
since the rooftop,  
the pier,  
the preschool umbrella,  
and the flood hurried plea.

He sits and watches her,  
in a silent and devoted vigil,  
because he knows that she loves him,  
and he love's her.


	6. Portrait At Nineteen

She's imagining another world in her mind, but she can barely hold on to the interwoven threads that she is weaving into a quilt of warm fantasy. The girl is distracted by the world around her. The air inside of her dark closet, isolating her from reality, can barely stand against the howls and thunderclaps of a cold front moving in from the North.

Wood snaps and nails creak under the wind as bright flashes of light make their way in from under the door. This is her parents' house. It isn't hers. It never was. She's an unfortunate and unwilling tenant. But right now she has escaped into her inner sanctuary, her shrine to Arnold, at twelve midnight on a Saturday.

She reads a volume of her poetry from ten years ago; she's nineteen. She was nine then, in the fourth grade. Overly dramatic prose and poetry, the words of her youth, flicker under the candle light. They're so vivid to her that she can remember when she wrote them in that same spot, under a different candle and a more youthful shrine that is now just a picture on the wall. It has only a few relics in jars and boxes that she managed to save when her mother threw everything else out in a fit of hangover induced nest cleaning.

Helga knows she'll never be truly free here, so she bides her time in community college and a job at her father's store, which she is surprisingly good at. But none of that matters now, as another bolt of thunder claps, and the gale blows through the old house.

She reads the words of her pre-teen self, an introspective a decade in the making.

They are the thoughts of a once-immortal being, speaking with only a basic understanding of mortality. She cracks a small smile on her lips, as her words cry out for Arnold. Had she known ten years ago, that Arnold would find his parents at age fifteen and leave Hillwood never to return, would the words be different? Would she have fought harder to win a chance to feel his embrace, while ignoring the demon inside of her that told her to stay back, that she wasn't good enough for her living god?

Not enough, to sleep within his arms and wear his sweater in the morning?

There are cooler currents blowing outside now than there were before. The boards rattle and strain, their nails are rusted and worn, trying to hold on like Atlas holding the world on his shoulders.

The screams of the world win out and she looks up at the picture, and the swooning voice of her youth fades away in the thunder outside, and the shadows are restless as the candle flame dances in the air currents, disturbed by Helga as she shuffles her feet around and adjusts the pink hood of her worn out old jacket.

He's never coming back.

She realized that even at the airport on the day of Arnold's departure, when Gerald Johansen placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered words that she will never forget. "He loves you, you know."

The world will burn out like a dying ember, or it will be engulfed by the growing sun.

Her body will wither and die like a single wilted flower.

Her shrine will wash away in the flood.

The ice storm will never stop and this time will pass in the blink of an eye.

And yet…

As she looks at his picture, his eyes forever looking back at her…

…She's smiling.


	7. Not Alone

_This is a deleted scene from a direction I was trying to go with Pink Ribbon that I eventually abandoned. I was going through my folder marked "junk," where I put all my odd and end scenes to get re-used later or discarded. I came across this one and upon further reading decided that it really has no place in any present or future stories. Plus it is angst ridden. So I am classifying it as a drabble and raising it on the flagpole to see who salutes. Enjoy._

H A

"Olga's missing. Miriam is a hooker! Ya got that! My mother is a god damn whore! My father knocked up his secretary and now they're going to have a child! Bob and Miriam are getting a divorce. Miriam tested HIV positive. On top of all this, on top of all this I brought home a D in math and my dad cut off privileges. They wait until the family is on the verge, until the family is pulling itself apart to realize I exist, and now they're smothering me." Helga gritted her teeth as she looked down at him. "So don't you ever tell me that I don't know how hard it…"

Arnold shot up in front of Helga, mere inches from her own face, and screamed "I just buried my mom and dad!"

At that instant, Helga's breath caught in her throat, but Arnold's face remained red as his entire body shook with anger and tears. Arnold saw the fright in Helga's eyes and instantly wished he hadn't. He had hurt her, and it only compounded the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. He closed his eyes, and sat down against the ledge, one leg resting against it so he could face away from Helga.

After that he didn't hear anything but the traffic below and the wind in his ears. He wasn't sure he felt Helga's presence at all. It was Helga's decision to turn and run, he knew. He had hurt her again, the last person in the world that he'd ever do that to willingly. He yelled in her face. He scared her, ruined her image of him. Perhaps it was best. He had nothing at all to offer her, no security, just spit in the face and ringing ear drums.

More tears fell from his face as he brought his legs up and rested his arms on his knee caps, burying his face. He started sobbing; he had never felt so alone in his life.

It was then that he felt the most comforting thing that he had ever felt. A pair of slender yet strong arms wrapped themselves around his torso. Helga hugged herself to her back softly, and she rested her head against his neck.

"The night mom and dad disappeared, the area they were flying in had some terrible weather. Very powerful thunderstorms. Their plane wasn't rated for that kind of weather. About a month ago, the embassy found the remains of a Cessna deep inside San Lorenzo. The altimeter had been struck by lightning. Inside the Cessna they found, they found.." Arnold's voice cracked.

Helga scooted back and cradled Arnold's head in her hands. "Shhh. It's okay Arnold." She cooed desperately into his ear to calm him, tears welled up in her own eyes as the love of her life shook uncontrollably.

"They found, their bones, mingled together. Mom's..s.." Arnold hiccupped and a trail of mucus ran from his nose onto Helga's arm. She stroked his hair. "Mom.. Severe head injury. Don't know about dad."

"They died together." Helga whispered into his hair, amid her own sobs. "They're finally home."

"They never came home." Arnold cried into her chest. "They never came home and I'm just an orphan boy like your dad said."

Helga tilted Arnold's face to peer into his eyes. Through his cloudy eyes, Arnold could see Helga's own bloodshot blue orbs looking at him with nothing but concern and tears. She gripped his arms tightly, and said with a fright tinged voice. "I never want you to say that ever again football head. Okay." She cried. "I don't want you to ever say you are alone ever again." She put her lips to his forehead and kissed him, then looked into his eyes again. "You are not an orphan. "


End file.
